


In Pursuit

by black_rose_blade



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Meeting, Angst, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock, Bromance, Buddy Cop Movie, Case Fic, Crime Drama, Danger, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Excitement, Explosions, Friends to Lovers, Love/Hate Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Deaths, Mystery, Passion, Romantic Comedy, Thriller?, Witty Banter, Work In Progress, alternate past, banter in general, but also romance, disguised as a cop movie themed...thing, partners to friends, rom com
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2018-08-11 17:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7901440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_rose_blade/pseuds/black_rose_blade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective who doesn't play by the rules. John Watson is a law-abiding officer for New Scotland Yard. When the children of a high profile British family are kidnapped the two men end up paired on a mission that is much bigger than they thought. Together they must overcome their differences in order to save the missing children and in turn the Nation. A comedic story of action, adventure, loyalty, love and danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bulletproof

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: BBC's rendition of Sherlock Holmes and associates are obviously property of the bbc. I make no profit from writing this literal piece of trash fiction. 
> 
> Was the summary meant to sound like a cheesy buddy-cop action film? Yes, in fact imagine it being read out in that deep movie trailer narrator guy's voice. *bbc sherlock's 'how it was done theme playing* "WHEN A RICH MAN'S CHILDREN ARE KIDNAPPED BY A MYSTERIOUS MASTERMIND, BRITAIN'S BEST DETECTIVE IS HIRED FOR THE JOB, "I'm a consulting detective - the only one in the world. I invented the job." BUT HE DOESN'T PLAY BY THE RULES. (Sherlock:) "This is my Case, Lestrade, I'll do as I see fit!" ONLY ONE MAN CAN SAVE HIM FROM HIMSELF (John:) "This is not a game, Sherlock, your life is in danger!" SHERLOCK HOLMES *Sherlock turning his coat collar up* JOHN WATSON *John sneaking around a dark corner with a gun*- (explosion) *BOOM* – (John screaming:) SHERRRRLOOOOCKKK – *silence*– IN PURSUIT, NOW AVAILABLE TO READ ON AO3."
> 
> ... Yeah, I know, I'm so cool right? -_-;; Fucking nerd... 
> 
> In all seriousness though, that's the idea. Classic comedy relief of a buddy-cop movie with a hate-you-love-you trope for the rom-com twist I threw in... Hopefully you find the writing better in the actual story than my notes though... 
> 
> And Action!
> 
> Edit: at the time I started this story the high profile person I was thinking of only had one child, it is now 2018 and that person has... more than one child so... changed that bit. ALSO I went back and i didn't like what I'd written before because it felt rushed so I've edited and re-written Chapters 1 and 2 and will soon be adding chapter 3.  
> I'm still not done with the story. I abandoned it for a few years for various reasons but I'm back now and I fully intend to finish it. If not soon, at least at some point.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mysterious man is chased in the night while a straight-laced officer and his partner chase a lead of their own. Two stories converge as one event affects another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated and changed the fic. If you haven't read it in a while or if you've read it before, you'll want to re-read it. Some of the beginning is the same but I completely changed most of Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 will be edited accordingly.

The tell-tale blast of gunfire cracks through the air, followed quickly by screaming and more gunshots. Someone shouts from a distance. A figure in a long dark coat races through the dark alleys of London with the ease of someone who recognizes the territory well - fingers skimming along a dirty wall, using it as leverage to skid to the left and continue at breakneck speed towards a locked wire fence. With nowhere else to go, the figure takes the jump at a run, the gunfire getting louder behind him. He makes it to the other side unharmed, long legs crouching for just a moment before his equilibrium is recovered and he swerves into an alley on the left. A long metal stair case leads to the rooftops... perfect.

 

The man in the coat hops and reaches above himself to disentangle the metal stairwell from where it hangs. It clangs noisily and the gunfire behind him increases in both loudness and proximity. He scrambles and dashes upwards as rapidly as he can - his pursuers aren't far behind now. He can hear them clambering after him. He must hide quickly but he needs a good view for when they reach the roof. If he attempts to make a jump he could get shot. They're much too close.

 

 _Ah! There!_ The man hides his slim figure behind a large metal pipe that is spewing smoke out into the night. If the pipe wasn't wide enough he could at least count on the shadows cast by the dim lights and the cover of the night to help him remained hidden. He takes a calculating look around the roof top. Other than the pipe he’s currently hiding behind there are a couple of large metal boxes- electrical service units for the building, he imagines - and of course there’s the brick rectangular prism before him which is obviously the back of the service entrance that leads inside the building.

 

"Where'd he go?" A voice says somewhere close to the stairwell from which the man in the coat had climbed up on.

 

"Couldn't have gone far... Spread out." Another whispers.

 

The reflective surface of a metal sheet on the wall a few feet in front of the hiding man shows the shadowed figures spreading out. Three of them fan out around the roof of the building. He waits, barely breathing as one of them walks his way, gun raised in front of him. The hidden man's sharp eyes focus on the approaching figure as the others walk around the other side towards the entrance.

 

_approaching slowly but sloppily loud: head tilted at a slight angle - eyes squinting - wavering hands – inexperienced - bad shot - fear. Subdue quickly & quietly in 3... 2... 1_

 

With bat-like speed and grace the slim black-coated figure snatches up his prey. He covers the target’s mouth with one hand and holds him around the neck until the man slumps against him. He then takes the gun and lays his unconscious victim down slowly so as not to alert his partners to any foul play. Listening for the other gunmen, he creeps his way towards the left side of the rooftop entrance. He catches up with one quickly.

 

_uneasy tread in right leg – slight shortness of breath but steady hand – slower runner but better shot than the other – approach from behind and subdue with a quicker method._

 

In what seems like a flash the butt of the coated man's gun connects with the second pursuer's pressure point. The victim falls to the ground instantly but not before he lets out a short yelp.

 

The last enemy speeds around the corner, fire arm aimed at the slim man. The man in the coat shoots first and the gun his enemy holds is released as the bullet from the man in the coat connects with the flesh of his mark’s hand. The man in the coat darts forward and high-kicks the now disarmed gunman under his jaw. Something cracks as the man is tossed backwards by the blow. The man in the coat spins in the air and kicks him one more time in the solar plexus as his victim flies backwards. He crashes down, unconscious, but more shots are heard below. _Dammit,_ he’d thought he’d lost the rest of the idiots. It's time the figure in the coat get off this roof.

 

He rushes to the door of the entrance that should lead inside building, shoots the lock open and hurries down the steps of the building and out the door into a short hallway lined with five more doors. An exit sign at the end of the hall points towards the door on the far right. The man in the coat reaches it quickly and sprints down more stairs. Finally, he makes it towards the ground floor and is through a final door and out in the night once again.

 

He scans the abandoned London street and spots a few vehicles up the road and a few behind him in the direction he had been running from earlier. No sense going back that way, lest he meet with a straggler of his new gun-happy ‘friends’.

 

“Oi! I see him, down below!” A gruff but loud man shouts from above and bullets begin raining down behind the dark-clad figure as he runs towards a blue car up the street. Using the butt of his stolen gun he breaks the window open and makes short work of hot-wiring the old vehicle while his enemies continue to shoot towards him in the dark. The engine roars to a start, and the dark clad figure slams his foot down and accelerates up the road ahead. He laughs as he hears frustrated shouting from the gunmen, but his mirth doesn’t last long as he notices two headlights spring to life behind him and hears the roar of a much more powerful engine behind him. He’d never outrun them in this heap of garbage. And if he couldn’t out run them, well, he’d just have to out-smart them. He whirls his vehicle towards the right, leading his followers away from each other.

 

He knows just where to go.

 

 

\------------------

 

 

It's a seemingly quiet night in London. The air feels cool and crisp outside while two police Sergeants from New Scotland Yard sit in a car, waiting. There's a pleasant silence between the two of them as they watch for their mark to arrive in an abandoned shop just down the street. In a matter of minutes a short portly man walks up to the door, looks around hastily and, having spotted nothing suspicious around him in his haste, unlocks the door and walks into the shop.

 

One of the officers, a taller man of large build with red hair signals to his partner, a shorter man with sandy blonde hair, blue eyes and of average build to get out of the car slowly and walk around the back so that the two of them can sneak over to the shop after the suspect. The blue-eyed man nods his head silently and complies. They sneak around outside and maneuver their way over quickly, quietly and as conspicuously as they can. When they get closer to the building both take out their guns, the taller one leading and signaling for the shorter one to follow. They approach the windows and duck before they can be seen. A few hushed voices can be heard inside, but they seem to be moving further into the building, making it difficult for the officers to hear them. The smaller man takes a little rectangular compact mirror from out of his pocket – his partner raises an eyebrow at him, but does not comment – and adjusts it so he can raise it slightly in order to see into the window above them.

 

He angles it left to right until he gets a view of the people inside. There are at least eight men gathered within, far outnumbering the police officers, talking to each other in hushed tones. One of them points towards a door behind them and they slowly begin to file through, one after the other. The police officers hold their breath as they hope that the criminals are stupid enough not to leave a lookout. Their prayers are rewarded as the last man shuts the door behind him.

 

The red-haired officer approaches the door first, slowly, and removes a lock-picking kit from his belt. Now the blonde raises his eyebrow. “Is that wise? Without back up?” He mouths.

 

The other rolls his eyes, “We need to catch them in the act, remember?”

 

The blonde _hmms_ and waits patiently for his partner to try and open the door. It takes a few minutes and the shorter sergeant begins to grow impatient, tapping his foot in frustration. Just when he feels like he's about to lose his mind the lock clicks and the door eases open silently.

 

“Good work, Watson,” The talker man whispers teasingly, “couldn't have done it with without you.”

 

Watson keeps a purposely serious expression on his face but makes sure to playfully whack his partner on the back of the head as he creeps his way inside before him. There was nothing for it now. They were in. Hopefully this wouldn't put any strain on the operation. “Shut your mouth, Wilson.” He murmurs.

 

The voices on the other side are clearer now as the officers enter the darkened shop. There's a counter to the left, a door leading to another room before them and a hall to the right side of the door. There are a few racks of knick-knacks in the middle area. Watson and Wilson sneak around them to get close to the room, closer to the hall so they can hide should the criminals come out. Wilson turns his recording device on and angles it towards the room.

 

“... this is it?” A stern-sounding voice asks from within the next room.

 

“Yes, that's all of it.” The confident voice that Wilson and Watson know to be that of their mark speaks.

 

“Don't look like much.” A third voice adds, this one sounds a little slurred and a bit nasaly.

 

“It's not meant to. You've got to understand this is new tech we're working with here. Easily concealed, but packs quite a punch. The blast radius is much stronger than most of the stuff that's four times the size of this product.” The portly man anwers.

 

Some footsteps are heard in the room. There's more grumbling as Watson and Wilson creep around towards the hallway on the left. They hide behind the wall and watch from the cover of the darkened hiding spot as the room they were previously in begins to fill up with men again.

 

“We can go around the side door, towards the alley. The building next door is abandoned. We'll test the other toys there.” The owner of the stern voice, a huge man standing at, at least six feet tall with a wide-barrel chest, says as he moves towards an exit. The officers prepare themselves to follow when a noise is heard out in the street. A speeding vehicle, it sounds like, and... were those _gunshots_?

 

Watson and Wilson twitch slightly but they keep their eyes on the men.

 

“What was that?” Their mark speaks quietly as the vehicles seem to get closer.

 

“Prob'ly jus' some idiots up to no good.” The nasally voiced man says. He's gangly and pale with blond hair. His eyes look sunken into his skull, his beard a scruffy mess, but something in him appears keener than he's letting on. Some of the men turn and look at him skeptically, though, clearly thinking him a fool, while the others keep their eyes to the window facing the street, listening.

 

They hear a loud screeching noise and the vehicles now seem to be right outside along with the accompanying gunshots.

 

“C'mon, follow me.” The terse man says quietly as they all pull out their weapons and start to make their way towards a door which leads to a hallway towards the back of the house. All except the gangly fellow, who hangs back slightly and holds something behind his back, then, seeming to change his mind about staying back, he decides to follow, though he does pull a gun of his own out from behind him as he does.

 

Watson and Wilson begin to creep forward after their targets and just as they enter the previously occupied room, a vehicle collides in through the shop wall. Their targets yell from outside the room, but luckily none come back in to investigate.

 

“Let's go!” Watson urges, running further into the room.

 

“Isn't this the part where you'd normally tell me to wait for back-up?” Wilson asks, just as he radios over a signal for back-up to get here quickly.

 

“A car literally just crashed through the wall, I think it’s safe to say that whatever cover we had it’s more likely to get blown now.” Watson makes his way towards the rubble, to check for an injured party.

 

A glass crashes and breaks somewhere outside. The commotion increases towards the front entrance of the shop and more gunshots are heard.

 

“Blimey, this is a cock-up, alright.” The red-headed police man answers, “How is that poor sucker?” Wilson asks, gesturing towards the car.

 

“No one in here.” Watson replies, having broken through a window and had a look inside. A bullet flies past him from out in the street. He takes cover behind the vehicle, “Fuck, we can’t lose our targets.”

 

Wilson takes cover with him, “Do we pursue them or engage these idiots? I already called back up...”

 

Watson hesitates, and the sound of engines are heard outside once more, presumably their targets have gotten to their vehicles and are escaping. He swears again, “Fuck, we’ll have to engage in order to get to our car so we can follow them. We can’t lose them now, not when we’re so close. Wilson, cover me.”

 

“Got your back, mate.” Wilson nods and the two officers of the law begin their assault on the shooters.

 

“This is NSY Sergeants Wilson and Watson, you are all under arrest, put the weapons down.” Wilson shouts.

 

“Oi! There are coppers here! –” A man shouts.

 

“Not a problem, kill ‘em all,” another man shouts.

 

Wilson catches up to Watson as they squat behind a brick fence. Their car is across the street, but in between where the officers are hiding and their vehicle, it looks like three different groups are engaged in battle. “Was worth a try.” Wilson laughs.

 

Watson gives him a wolfish grin, “Idiot.”

 

The officers are under siege again soon and they break into join the fight. There are men everywhere, shooting, punching, attempting to stab and some to hide from gunfire. It’s an absolute mess.

 

Watson feels himself moving as if in slow motion as he engages in battle. Moments like these are his secret relief. His return to civilian life would have been dreary if he hadn't made such an effort to recover. This was why he lived, this was why he breathed.

 

_Bullet, ten o'clock, dodge. Dash, kick. Gunshot to the left leg, incapacitated. Kick gun away. Knock-out. Behind you, punch to the jaw, kick to the stomach, dodge a bullet at two o'clock. Shoot current sparring partner in the arm. Kick hard. Stay down. Wilson to the Right. Enemy nine o'clock, charge, kick, punch, kick again, slam, punch, Three down. Two o'clock shooter at four clock, ready, aim, fire._

 

Watson sprints towards the shooter as he spots Wilson in his peripheral taking down his second victim. Watson's target tumbles to the ground as he and Watson engage in a fist fight. Wilson has skidded out of the way, gaining ground towards their car. Watson attempts to handcuff his perpetrator. He fights against his restraints, but finally, finally, Watson gets him into handcuffs. He stands quickly, ready to follow his friend, “Watson, come on!” Wilson has started the car.

 

“Great let’s go!” Watson dodges a few bullets but gets into the relative safety of the car without injury. He immediately rolls down the window to shoot at the few stragglers still aiming at them. A few feet away they vaguely see another vehicle which seems to be following in the direction that their leads seem to have escaped through. Wilson turns the siren on and the car screeches as they chase after their targets.

 

Soon they and the vehicle in front of them, a red sports car which they recognize to belong to one of the associates of their lead, seem to be catching up to a big black van. Watson attempts to shoot at the sports car, but the driver masterfully swerves out of the way and is soon on the right-hand side of the van. A man in the van begins shooting at the red car and another opens the back of the van and begins shooting at Watson. Watson aims back at the man in the van.

 

“Looks like some trouble in paradise over there,” Wilson comments loudly as he attempts to keep up without himself getting shot.

 

“Bloody idiots!” Watson snarls as one of his bullets finally seems to land and the man in the van falls back inside his vehicle, the back doors flapping in the wind. The red car speeds up as around them the streets get tighter as they drive further into the sleeping city and it becomes increasingly more difficult to drive side-by-side. The red vehicle flies ahead of the van.

 

Watson and Wilson continue their pursuit of their suspect’s vehicle, rushing through London at impossible swiftness in the dead of night.

 

Distantly they hear the sounds of other police vehicles in the background. “It’s about time.” Watson mutters under his breath.

 

 

————

 

The man in the dark coat, though he would never admit it aloud, had made a slight miscalculation. The vehicle he’d commandeered was running low on fuel and he had had no choice but to force one of his following vehicles to back into an abandoned building in order to try and escape on foot. The others wouldn’t be too far behind but if he ran through certain alleys he’d quickly lose them. He saw his mistake two seconds after he’d exited the vehicle. The building had not been abandoned. Men had come spilling through a back entrance out towards the street and had begun to shoot almost immediately as his enemy had escaped the crash and had gotten to his feet.

 

Bit not good.

 

The man in the coat had soon taken cover and was quickly engaged in a gun fight as his enemy and the men in the building had started shooting both at him and at each other.

 

Some of his other enemies had later joined and finally a couple of police officers. As the officers distracted a few of the enemies, both new and old, and the enemies distracted each other, the coated man had made his way to a shiny red sports car. He had noticed, as he broke into it that some of the newer enemies had climbed into a black van and had loaded some interesting packages into their vehicle. The man in the coat had hot-wired this car faster than the previous and immediately had given chase. Lestrade would surely thank him for this later.

 

He’d managed to catch up to the van when the police officers had caught up to him and begun to try and gun him down.

 

“Idiots!” The man in the coat had growled, teeth gritted in frustration as he had made to shoot at the driver of the van.

 

He’d run out of amo though, and had had to improvise. He’d have brought his car towards the side of the van and would have attempted to climb out of his window onto the front seat if it hadn’t been for the maniac policemen and the passenger shooting at him. The roads had gotten tighter and the man in the coat had had no choice. He’d slammed his foot on the acceleration and sped ahead of the van.

 

And now of course, he’s here, and there is no choice but to do what he has to do for the second time tonight. The man in the coat switches gears and without a second thought, reverses towards the van.

 

_Impact on three, two, one..._

 

In less than a few seconds he’s jumping out of the borrowed car and tumbling onto the street violently as the van slams straight into the sports car and explodes backwards, hurtling with force towards the out of control automobile occupied by the policemen.

 

_Probably... no, definitely, a bit not good._

 

The man in the coat flinches almost imperceptibly as the van bursts into a strong flame and the vehicles skid to a stop. He hears screaming and watches as the police car flies into the wreckage and explodes. “Oops.” He says as sirens in the distance begin to grow louder.

 

—————

 

Watson screams in horror as the cars collide on the road in front of them _. What the actual FUCK is happening?_ “Wilson!” He screams in warning as his partner’s vehicle spirals out of control.

 

“Bad, bad, bad!” Wilson shouts, as Watson removes his seat belt screaming, “Jump!!!”

 

Watson sees Wilson open his door and go to remove his belt before he tumbled violently out of the car into safety. Watson rolls away and his body collides with a post box when he lands. His ears are buzzing with the noise of an explosion. Watson rushes to stand, but his body isn’t co-operating. Finally, he grabs hold of the post box he’d been knocked into and uses it as leverage to stand, a hand against his head as he feels his legs wobble.

 

Watson’s eyes are watering and the scene before him is utter chaos. Vaguely, he sees in the distance as a man in a long black coat chases after one of the men that had been riding in the van. Watson wants to pursue, but he knows his body won’t be able to keep up, and he can’t see Wilson anywhere.

 

The sirens that were behind him earlier finally catch up with them as a bunch of police vehicles screech to a halt around him. Watson slides down the post box and allows his body to rest as he sees an ambulance arrive. As the paramedics run out, he points towards the wreckage and shouts, “Wilson!”

 

————

 

 

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is a handsome middle-aged man with a generally good track record for putting away the bad-guys. His unit is (mostly) useful and his days are (mostly) good. Tonight, unfortunately is not a good night. One of his officers is down, more than one suspect is missing, and to top it all off a big old explosion has gone off. Not to mention the huge gunfight that went down. He's been waiting months for this operation to go right. He's worked hard to get five of his best colleges put on the job with him and he'd had the place surrounded so efficiently... How is this happening right now? Just where did he go wrong?

 

He arrives at the scene of the mess only a few minutes after the paramedics and fire department arrive. The radio is going nuts with messages. His men are following the last known suspects of their botched operation as they speak, but as one of the Detective Inspectors in charge of this mission Lestrade feels it is his responsibility to check on his fallen comrade first.

 

“John!” He calls as he spots one of the best new Sergeants he's had the pleasure to meet, “I came as soon as I heard.”

 

“Greg!” Officer Watson responds, he’s sitting on a bench wrapped in a hideous and scratchy looking orange blanket, watching as they load his partner into an ambulance via gurney. “He’s alive,” John explained as Greg approached the bench and dropped next to him heavily, eyes trained on the man being transported, “but just barely,” John continues, “They’re taking him in now.”

 

“Shit,” Greg runs a hand down his tired face, belatedly he asks, “and you, John, you alright?”

 

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Just a bit, you know, knackered...” The sandy-haired man sighs wearily, the wrinkles and bags under his eyes making him look ancient with fatigue.

 

“... What... what happened?” Greg asks.

 

John lets out a laugh that almost sounds like a whine, “I honestly have no idea.” He looked at Greg, eyes calm, but they were betrayed a bit by his faltering voice, “I - everything was fine, then this gang just showed up and started shooting up the place once we were inside, we got caught in between as we followed the mark, and then... just... and all hell had broken loose, you know? And there was this guy in a sports car - and honestly I have no idea whose side he was on but it certainly wasn’t ours, or theirs. And then he just slammed his car into the van. I couldn’t get up, Greg. They got away. I... everything - it... it happened much too quickly. I'm so sorry. I should've... I just. It was utter madness.”

 

“Fuck. It's... it's not your fault, John. But FUCK.”

 

“Yeah, I know... Yeah.” John agrees, lamely.

 

Lestrade sighs and slumps forward, head almost between his knees as he scratches his hands through the back of his his head, through his hair.

“Did you get a look at the guy in the car?”

 

“Not really. Not much time. He had a... sort of long coat?”

 

“Well... that's helpful" Greg answers sarcastically, though his voice sounds more tired than annoyed, "Don't worry about it. You did your best, mate. But, _fuck_. This is going to be a lot of paper work.”

 

The men stare at each other for a second, then laugh hysterically. The paper work was the least of their problems right now.

 

Lestrade stands up with a weary slump on his shoulders and straightens himself out before turning and offering John a hand, “Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.”

 

John smiles just as wearily, “Not the station?” He asks as he takes the hand.

 

Greg pulls him up and wraps an arm around his friend, “Nah, you’ll go tomorrow. It can wait.”

 

“Thanks, Greg.” John leans on his friend and follows him to his car. He’d sleep tonight, then he’d do his paper work, and Wilson... well, he’d just have to wait till later to actually see his friend.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: **Sorry it took so long to get back. I've had a troubling few years. Anyway hopefully i make this story better and you guys enjoy it more the second time around.**
> 
> Honestly, I've been looking for a fic like the one I'm planning but can't seem to find one which is why I'm writing this shit, but I promise that it will not just be fighting and action and coolness. I want there to be witty banter and ... other secret things that I won't tell you but you can probably guess by the tags, and/or other shit I may have given away while blabbering like a moron. 
> 
> ps. I'm am not even close to any kind of literature knowledgeable person. I haven't read a book properly since I was... 18...? And I'm currently ... older. So... Yes... ahem. The most I read these days are useless things that are dumb. I'm an amazing adult. Very exemplary. :P but yes... Just... fyi, the writing quality might not be... erm... 5-star.


	2. A Force of Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is warned about Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really short one. About half the amount of words as in the intro chapter, and I'm still not happy with it, but I really want to move on to the rest so... hopefully I don't come back and edit this one as much as I edited Chapter 1, which btw, if you read it before, the first time I posted this, I suggest you re-read it. I've re-written it and edited out many spelling, grammar, tense and plot mistakes I had made. Part of it is completely different than before, and Sherlock and John haven't met yet (well not officially) as they had in my original intro.

John walks into the station first thing in the morning with a tray full of coffee which he distributes to many of his colleagues as he passed them. He makes his way to Greg’s office last, to say a quick hello to his friend before he starts his day. He’s promised himself he’ll make his statement, grab some of his other paper work and take it with him to the hospital where Wilson should be. 

John’s training as an army doctor had certainly helped him remain calm as he’d seen his partner out of the detritus left behind in the wake of the crushed and burning vehicles. The man had been in critical condition last night, having survived such a violent wreckage. He was, truthfully, lucky to be alive. John’s stomach lurches at the thought of his friend broken and bruised in the hospital bed and the fact that’d he’d been unable to help him.

As John approaches Lestrade’s office he hears, through the slightly open door, what sounds like a vicious argument.

Sergeant Sally Donovan, a tall, deceivingly slender looking woman is seated at her desk outside Greg’s office, typing furiously with her face focused on her computer screen. John distractedly places a coffee at the corner of her desk. She ignores John’s questioning gaze when he looks at her. He notices one of her eyes is twitching slightly and her brows are knitted into a heavy scowl and decided against asking out loud, instead he looks curiously toward the office door. 

A low baritone voice can be heard hissing viciously within Greg’s office, but John can’t quite hear what the owner of the voice is saying. He doesn’t feel like he should be listening so he makes to walk away when he hears Greg shout,

“months of work, Sherlock! Months! You get us results, then your chaos is worth it, but all you’ve got for me right now is a headache and millions of pounds worth of damage! You think you’re so clever? Is that what you’re trying to prove? Because the only thing you’ve proven to me is that you are an irresponsible git and that you can’t handle the freedom you’ve been given! I’m serious, I don’t know how you have the stones to come in here and ask me for help right now!”

The door is flung open suddenly and Lestrade stands at its entrance, gesturing at the person inside in what is clearly a dismissal, “No, Sherlock, shut your mouth. I can’t deal with this right now.” Lestrade sounds almost sad, possibly disappointed “Just... just get out.” 

John is standing by Sally’s desk looking slightly shocked, still holding a now mostly empty tray of coffee cups. He’s seen Greg angry since he transferred to the London homicide division, of course he has, this is a stressful job, but that strange look of disappointment mixed with rage... he’s never seen Greg quite so unhinged. Sally too, has a look of slight shock on her face, but she also looks slightly pleased. 

Finally, the moment of shock seems to pass as a tall man walks out of Greg’s office with a haughty expression on his strange face. The man is slender and pale with a riot of dark curls upon his head. His steely gaze does nothing to mar his beautiful features but there’s something about him that makes John uneasy. Something about him seems vaguely familiar but John barely has the time, or the brain power to think about it in this moment. He only watches as the man glares at Greg as he walks out of the office and into the open space where John is still standing and Sally is still sitting at her desk, typing angrily. The man opens his mouth as if to say something, then, seemingly thinking better of it, he flicks a slight glance at Sally and John before he looks at Lestrade again. He huffs and walks away briskly instead, shoulders set rigidly in what is obviously a show of deep aggravation, his coat tails whirling behind him almost as if in solidarity of its wearer’s anger. 

John frowns slightly as the movement triggers something in the back of his mind, but the thought is extinguished as he sees Greg run his tired hand over his face as his angry expression falls, almost as if Lestrade had been wearing a mask which he is only now removing. He smiles wryly at John, “Morning, John.” He says, “did you need something? I’ve got some of your paper work here but other than that...” He asks this kindly, but John can tell Greg is really in no mood for questions. 

John mentally shakes the last of the shock away, “Er, no,” he says, quirking his lips up at his friend and boss in a hopefully commiserating expression, “Just, you know, brought you a coffee.”

Greg finally notices the tray in John’s hands, which John raises slightly to emphasize that he bears a gift. Greg’s smile is more genuine now, “John Watson, I could kiss you!” He says, reaching for the cup.

John laughs, “You’ll have to take me to dinner first, boss.” 

“Or you could let him do it and then sue him for sexual harassment.” Sally supplies pleasantly, her irritation from earlier seemingly forgotten as she too partakes in the gift John has brought her. 

Seeing an opportunity to lighten the mood John teases, “What and leave you free to make up all the rules? I’d rather just let him have his way with me. Besides, he’s fairly easy on the eyes. Could get used to it.”

Sally snorts, “Like you don’t enjoy following the rules.” She says, as Greg mouths, with a slight frown, “Fairly easy?” 

John grins and gives her a salute, then turns to Greg, “So... do I want to know what all that was about or should I bugger off and mind my own business?” 

“Mind your business.” Sally says, with a scowl back on her face as Greg sighs.

Greg ignores Sally’s comment, “Suppose it’s about time I warn you about him. Come into my office,” He gestures for John to enter, “let’s go sit down.” 

John quirks an eyebrow and follows Greg in, shutting the door behind him, but not before he hears Sally shout, “Oi, if he does kiss you let me know so I can report him for sexual misconduct in the workplace! I really want his job!”

Greg sniggers, “Insufferable wench,” he comments as he sits down behind his desk and gestures for John to sit in one of the standard grey chairs in front of the desk. 

John complies and sits. “So...” he prompts, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“So... first thing you want to know about Tall, Dark and Broody - he’s an absolute menace. Damn near impossible to work with. Trust me when I say that the urge to punch him will be one you’ll be wrestling with the moment he opens his mouth. His name is Sherlock Holmes. He’s a complete jerk…but he’s been one of my best consultants for the past five years, but not everyone thinks so.”

John raises an eyebrow but doesn’t interrupt.

“Some people” Greg gestures at the door with his chin to indicate which people, “might even go so far as to argue that he’s a menace to society. The truth is, he does seem to be, at times. Like last night… he was the one in the red car that crashed near you and Wilson. He um… He caused the explosion but –“  
  
  
“Wait, what?” John’s blinked as his mind was suddenly filled with clarity, “That was him? And you haven’t arrested him?!”

 

Greg flinched, “Look, John, I’m sorry, I really am, but, well, he swears he was trying to help– “

 

“Greg, he could have killed us, he almost killed Wilson!” John’s hands clenched around his coffee cup in frustration. Greg was a little worried that he would crush it and spill the hot beverage on himself.  


“Look, John, I know. I know, alright? But he didn’t. He made a huge mess, and I did just chew him out for it. But I just… I’m going to need you to trust me, John. He’s mad but he’s also brilliant. He’s usually really very helpful, in his own self-destructive, reckless sort of way. Last night, that sort of thing, it doesn’t normally happen, not to that extent anyway.” 

John stares at Greg.

“Look, I know what you’re thinking, and trust me I’ve had the argument with myself as well. Especially on days like today, but I promise you he really isn’t that bad. He’s just,” Greg hesitates, “he’s a force of nature, is all,” he finishes, lamely.  


John looks rather irritated, but he surprises Greg when he says, “Look, I won’t meddle. Who you hire or allow to work with you is your business, but I hope you know what you’re doing, Greg. And I will say this: Your man almost got one of us killed last night. Not to mention all the damage he did both to public spaces and to our investigation. I can’t really speak as to his helpfulness with last night as my only point of reference but, we’re a team. This Sherlock Holmes guy may be good, but if he can’t work with your team, then you are just alienating them, and they may grow to resent you for it. That is, if they don’t already,” John tilts his head slightly to indicate that he’s noticed a certain team member already seems upset. “Besides, this work… it isn’t just about getting the job done quickly. This is about getting the job done right. We’re talking about the danger of actual, real human lives. You’ve got to care about that or else the rest… well, the rest doesn’t really matter, does it?”  


“No, I… I know,” Greg responds, ruefully, “You’re right John, of course you are, and I - I’m sorry, that I… that he put your lives at risk. That I’ve let him think he can. But don’t think that I didn’t give him a piece of my mind, because I did. Still, yes, I see your point. Can’t very well be a good leader if I don’t have faith in the rest of the team to help get things done. You’re completely right. I’ll um, I’ll make it a point not to call anytime soon. Sound good?”  
  
  
John shrugs, “Not really my decision to make,” he smirks at Greg, “but I also wouldn’t advise against it.”  
  
  
Greg smiles, “Fine,” he says and flicking his hand towards the door playfully he adds, “Noted, and now, you’ve been warned. Get out.”  
  
  
John rises, bows sarcastically, grinning at his friend as he does so, “As you wish,” he says and he walks out of Greg’s office.

 

———

 

Sherlock storms out of the station with an insurmountable amount of irritation. Lestrade was normally obtuse but he at least usually listened to his advice, something which didn’t seem like a likely action out of him now. He’d made it perfectly clear he was going to be deliberately unhelpful and that was just going to limit Sherlock further as he continued his investigation. Worrying about the police not being on his said was an extra thorn in his side that he simply did not need right now.

If only he’d managed to get the evidence he needed against Moran last night. Or if he’d at least captured one of those arms dealers Lestrade’s men had been after (because they were arms dealers, of this Sherlock was sure), then he wouldn’t be in this situation. No, if all had gone according to plan he’d already have the evidence he needed to show that Moran was real and that he was behind the gang wars and mysterious disappearances he’s been investigating. If he’d have gotten that then Lestrade would have forgiven him his... little miscalculation. _Ugh, it’s so frustrating!_ It's hardly Sherlock's fault that the car he'd crashed the first time had just so _happened_ to collide with the same shop Lestrade's lackeys were working in. It was also hardly Sherlock’s fault that the police officers had let the arms dealers get away. He’d even tried to help them! Sure, there was a little bit of an explosion there, but it was a car chase with arms dealers. _What did they think would happen?_ And just what the hell was Lestrade's homicide team doing investigating an arms deal anyway?

There is no other solution to this problem. Sherlock desperately needs to find Moran. It's the only way he’ll get back on Lestrade's good books. He just needs to prove he’s real! But how is he going to do that now, with no more leads to follow? _How? Think, Sherlock, think!_ The only thing that comes to mind is to either wait to see if his contacts have any more leads for him (but that could be _ages_ from now) or to look through some cold cases, but to do that he’d have to have access to the NSY records and cold case files. He could always ask… but no, not that, _anything_ but that. No, there’s got to be another way… something he’s missed, but _what_? He tugs at his long dark curls in frustration and growls under his breath as he makes his way home on foot. The man’s mind sorts through his memories of the case for anything he may have overlooked but nothing comes to mind. What does come to mind though, is a different way to possibly recover Lestrade’s favor.

He decides that he’ll have to put the Moran case on hold and instead focus on doing something else. Sherlock decides to see about finding that arms dealer for Lestrade. It’ll keep his mind occupied while he waits on word from his contacts and it has the added bonus of most likely fixing his issue with Lestrade. Especially since, with the way they had left things, it didn’t look like the DI clearly would be of any help to him in future cases. Much as he is loath to admit it, the access to crime scenes, the criminal records and other resources Lestrade provides... he is a helpful friend to have, especially if Sherlock wants to continue doing his detective work uninhibited. God knows that if he doesn’t have that his brain will rot… well, the other option is always there, picking at the back of his mind, but we can’t have that again, can we? No, Sherlock will find the arms dealer and then he will find Moran’s and he will expose him.

He’d seen the plate on the van so that would be relatively easy to track, and that red sports car that he’d, er, ‘borrowed’ probably wouldn’t be too hard to trace either so, this wouldn’t be too difficult. Content with the fact that he now at least has a better plan of action than he did before, Sherlock continued towards his home with a new spring in his step and the beautifully tantalizing promise of adventure that was just within arm's reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note on WHY i re-did everything. I was really depressed and had some really fucking awful luck the past two years. I was in an awful place and writing this story, continuing it, became impossible for me, but i did continue it. The issue is, it wasn't fun or funny and i lost it. I lost where i was going and where I wanted it to be. I finally got back to it now and I realized to get where I wanted them to be I had to change Sherlock and John a bit more.  
> I wanted John to be less boring and to seem like more of a BAMF than they were before. I did give them both fight scenes in the original but it wasn't the good old buddy cop action movie intro that i wanted it to be. One of the original comments was that the plot sounded like Rush Hour (which is because when I had started writing this, I had a specific rich British man in mind to have his kid kidnapped to bring them together, and he had one child at the time where as now he has two, which i thought sort of fit more with the episode of BBC Sherlock when Moriarty kidnaps the two rich kids anyway - so i changed it to the two kids) Anyway, so I decided to watch Rush Hour, along with a bunch of other old buddy cop movies (lemme tell you I did not remember some of those movies being so offensive XD but there were some nostalgia points there) along with comedic detective/cop shows like Brooklyn nine nine and Castle, and what I noticed was that there was a lot more action and car scenes as well as much better hate-to love relationships. There was so much thrill! So much recklessness to add to the DRAMA - so... I added a fucking car chase and explosions, because Sherlock has to be a crazy mother-fucker. 
> 
> Sherlock.... HE DOES NOT PLAY BY THE FUCKING RULES OKAY? Sherlock literally gives no fucks. He's like: Oh I did thousands of pounds word of damage? Oopsie, not my fault, I was helping. Step off, bitch. I'm awesome! Nobody's smarter than me. I'm the coolest bad-ass, watch me solve shit on my own, cuz I'm a bad-ass! (But like, he's going to be really funny about this later - I want to introduce him as just, SUCH a dick. Like he's just so annoying! So annoying in fact that people don't appreciate him getting shit done all that much cuz he's almost not worth it. Cuz that's Sherlock. He's literally that guy in BBC. He doesn't really change much except that he's more reckless in this story and inadvertently causes more destruction than he does on BBC. He's a little bit of RDJ Sherlock in that sense, but also like every other reckless cop. I heavily based him on the character, David Bouchard from a hilarious (and by hilarious i mean funny in a Canadian way because it's so cheesily Canadian) buddy cop movie called Bon Cop Bad Cop about a Quebecois francophone rule breaker cop and an Ontarian cop. (if you haven't seen it please find it- if you're Canadian it'll be on netflix. It's so stupidly Canadian, please watch it, I died. The coroner is my favorite.)
> 
> And John... well John is working with homicide now, and he still used to be a soldier, so I made him a little smarter than he's portrayed on the show. I really liked Lee's character in Rush Hour, he's clever and silly at the same time and a total bad-ass, he's the detective who kinda plays by the rules but at the same time he's willing to go along with Carter's shenanigans because A.) there's no stopping that crazy mofo and B.) he gets shit done even though he's totally nuts. I found that dynamic in the other buddy-cop movies I watched as well. So yeah... I gave John a bit more brain power, but also because this is a ROM-COM buddy cop movie, John is also a great people person and he's kinda fun and flirty. He's my Kate Becket. My Martin Ward. My Amy Santiago.
> 
> But yeah. So the story has changed a lot. And yeah... I'm sorry I abandoned it and you guys. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy, Later Gaters!  
> -B


	3. The Wig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John does some detective work. Even though he's not a detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer/warning: I don't know fuck all about being a police officer, let alone anything about being one in the UK, which is halfway around the world from where I am. I did no research on that what so ever. I'm too lazy. Also busy.

 

            Bill Wiggins is not used to this kind of trouble. Certainly, his work as a protégé to his brilliant friend has never necessarily been specified as safe or even, at times, precisely very legal, but never - not once - has he felt that his life has been put into such peril as it has been in the past couple of days. He can’t even begin to comprehend what he must have done to make Shez think that he’d be okay with participating in a bloody arms deal just to help him with his goddamn case. _He’s mad!_ He has to be. Sure, Bill had agreed to help him out a little; ask around for clues, investigate a few people here and there, practice a little more of his deductive reasoning skills… Sure, yeah, good, that was all fine, but he had not signed up for _this_. He was on probation, for god’s sake! If he had known his undercover mission to spy on that Porlock guy was going to lead him to deal with these sorts of people, he wouldn’t have ever agreed to do this at all.

            “ _Don’t worry Billy_ ,” He’d said, “ _I just need you to get to know this man, follow him around, do a little digging when he’s not paying attention… Just do as he asks and there shouldn’t be any trouble_ ,” He’d assured. Well he’s in a right mess, now isn’t he? If his probation officer gets wind of all this and he’s caught by the police he’ll surely be arrested. Who’s going to believe he’s hanging around with arms dealers because he’s on a case? Furthermore, who’s going to believe him when they find out that he is ‘investigating’ on behalf of a ‘rehabilitated’ drug addict that _he_ has been guilty of selling drugs to in the past?

            And Porlock with his men? They’re even worse, aren’t they? If Shezza is right and Porlock is involved with Moran then that means that Bill is surely doomed. If Porlock is connected to the man behind all the fucking bullshit that has been going down in the city’s underground then there will be no escaping his wrath when they figure out that Bill is working as a double-agent for someone who’s trying to capture his leader. Because they would find out, eventually they would. These sorts of people always find out. Everyone who lives on the streets knows, you do not mess with The Spider unless you’re prepared to disappear and never be heard from again. His men are unfailingly loyal because if they aren’t they’re as good as dead. It’s a perfect system of oppression for those who have no choice when it comes to their survival. Once you’re involved with Moran there is no turning back, you either play the game or you die. Those are the rules.

Bill sighs, and lays his head back against the brick wall of a dingy building. It’s musty and it’s cold. Bill is stuck here now, surrounded by a bunch of smack-heads while he lays low in another freakin’ crack den making sure no one dies just so none of them snitch about his whereabouts. And along with them comes the constant temptation of sweet bliss, which is always, always, just one questionable needle away. Right now, though, would not be an ideal time to fall into old habits, not if he wants to stay hidden. What had happened the other night would surely come back to bite him. That kind of a mess never leads to good results for a new recruit. Porlock and friends would not be happy about what had gone down. The loss of their product was a big blow and Bill had already heard rumors of just how upset the dealers were with the involvement of the police during their meeting. Bill isn’t sure he’ll be the one to be blamed for it, but he doesn’t want to take any chances. He decides to continue laying low for a few more days, just until he can get a word out to his friend. It is, after all, his fault that Bill is in this situation in the first place. Besides, despite the fact that his life is in mortal peril Bill has faith that his friend will know just what to do. He always knows what to do.

 

\------

            John lays his head on the table in front of him with a loud thunk. His eyes feel tired and his brain feels like it’s going to explode with frustration. It’s been almost two entire weeks and he’s found nothing - not a single trace of his arms dealers anywhere. He groans quietly. An open file filled with pages and pages of case notes sit there along with photographs of Porlock and pictures of different houses and buildings followed by their addresses (which John has thoroughly investigated only to find no trace of the man). His laptop sits uselessly by his outstretched right arm, the screen saver bouncing the image of a sea turtle around in a way that John thinks is annoyingly cheerful for a machine.

 

Sally is sitting across from him at the same table in the records room. There are file cabinets and shelves containing boxes of papers everywhere and a few tables strewn throughout the large space in between the rows and rows of records. Sally’s hair is knotted up in a messy bun on top of her head. Some of her loose curls seem to have a mind of their own as they dangle in various directions. She gives John a sympathetic look which he doesn’t notice because he’s busy wallowing in self-pity. “No luck?” She asks.

 

“None.” John admits, then he adds “I blame Sherlock Holmes.” He says it mostly because he’s become aware (through office rumors) that Sally apparently despises him and he’s curious to see what her reaction will be when he mentions the infamous consultant. He’s not usually one for gossip but he’s found himself intrigued by Lestrade’s warning about the man and has been taking every opportunity to hear new stories about him. Officer Evans had sworn to John that the consultant could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. He smiles, bemused at the memory of the enthusiasm with which he’d been told that story.

 

Sally huffs, “Yeah well, I would be the last one to tell you that you shouldn’t.”

 

John looks up at her, hoping for another Holmes story, “Yeah?”

 

A vein throbs on her temple and she grits her teeth for a moment before she expels a breath and says, “I don’t want to talk about him, Watson.”

 

John definitely does not pout and he agreeably changes the subject, “Alright... What’re you working on then?”

 

“Ugh. Long shot. That missing persons case, with some street kid. It’s more cases now. Apparently, it’s more than one that’s gone missing. No one’s talking, though. It’s making it rather difficult.”

 

John sits up and stretches, pulling his hands behind his back, inhaling deeply into an arch then exhaling in relief as he releases his tension. “Need some help?” He suggests, “or a coffee?”

 

“Dear God, not another coffee please, I can practically feel my blood buzzing.” She genuinely looks horrified at the idea, “You _could_ pass me that box back behind you on that shelf, the one labeled ‘SA’.”

 

John twists around in his seat and looks. “Sure,” he stands and picks up the box from the shelf, but as he pulls it free the bottom somehow tears. A pile of files and the papers within them flutter out onto the floor. “Ah shit.” John mutters.

 

Sally whines, “Uuuhhhnn, Jooooohnnn, wwwhyyyyyyy?”

 

John grimaces as he stoops to the floor to begin picking up the sheets, “Sorry,” He apologizes as Sally comes over to help. “Hang on -” John spots something as they grab at papers.

 

“Hmm?” Sally questions, glancing at John with a puzzled look on her face.

 

John pulls a sheet from the pile, “This man, right here... I know him! He- he was there the other night, at the shop!”

 

“What, seriously?” She looks over at the sheet of paper John has clenched tightly in his fist and looking at the photo says, “Oh, yeah, that’s that kid, Wiggy - something?” Then, her perplexed expression increasing, “Wait, _he_ was there?”

 

“Wiggins,” John corrects as he reads from the page, “Bill, Wiggins, yeah, you know him?”

 

“Er, sort of. I saw them bring him in a few months ago for petty theft or something,” Sally replies.

 

“Says here he’s an accomplished ex-chemistry and engineering student... maybe he was involved with building explosives?” John suggests.

 

“Could be. Doesn’t seem the type though. At least, not from what I saw of him. I’m pretty sure he’s street kid and a junky. It should say in the file.”

 

John’s eyes rove over the neatly typed information, “Ah yeah, cocaine and methamphetamine...”

 

“Dead shame that. All that brain power and he uses it to... well, you know.” She makes a gesture implying the use of a needle against her arm.

 

John _hmms_ thoughtfully, “No known residence... do you think there’s any info on the database on where I could find him? There’s nothing on this sheet.” He looks down at the mess of papers still littering the floor. “And by the time I get this lot sorted...”

 

Sally also gives a dismal look at their mess, “I know, Barrett’s going to kill us.”

 

She’s no sooner finished saying the words than the woman herself walks in with a box filled with freshly organized files. “Watson. Donovan. Are you fucking kidding me?” She glares at the both of them sitting on the ground surrounded by the disaster they’ve made. Her tiny heeled shoe taps impatiently. Who knew such a little thing could look so frightening?

 

Sally flinches, but she’s smiling as she points a finger, “It was John!” She blames.

 

John laughs, “Oi! You asked me to get it for you!”

 

“I didn’t know you were going to drop it!” The woman looks like she’s about to start laughing.

 

“You two are useless,” Barrett says, exasperated, blowing a blonde strand of hair out of her delicate heart-shaped face as she places her box on the table. “Just get out of here. I’ll sort this out.”

 

“It’s alright we’ll sort them,” John offers, though he knows she’ll say no.

 

“You’ll mess up my system, Watson. No.” She gives them a tired quirk of lips, “besides, aren’t both your cases time sensitive? Just go do your jobs and let me do mine.”

 

John and Sally look at each other, “If you’re sure...” Sally ventures.

 

Barrett waves away her comment as she stoops to pick up some files, “Just get out,” She smiles gently at them now, all traces of annoyance gone.

 

Sally and John don’t need to be told twice though. They scurry up off the floor before Barret decides to change her mind. They hurriedly grab each of their respective laptops and files and begin to flutter out of the room.

 

“Er, I’m - can I borrow this?” John asks Barrett, indicating the single sheet with Wiggins’ mugshot and basic info, as he and Sally make their exit.

 

“Which one’s that?” Barrett asks, distracted.

 

“Bill Wiggins.” John answers.

 

“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind.” Barrett takes out her phone and types in a note to remind her, “I’ll bring you the rest of his information once I sort these?”

 

“That would be great.” John grins and waves as he goes off to join Sally in the corridor as each of them make their way to their respective desks.

 

“Oh! John! You know who might have something useful for you?” Sally suddenly exclaims as he joins her,”— Porky — he’s a bit of an arse, but he’ll be helpful if you ask nicely.”

 

John asks, “And who’s Porky?”

 

She smirks then and picks through a folder mixed with the files she’d taken with her, “Here–” she passes them over to John, “–he’s an informant for DI Gregson. I worked with him on a case once, when I was just a constable. If your guy’s a street kid like I think, and he’s been involved in any criminal activity recently, Porky will know.”

 

“Huh, Johnson, Shinwell a-k-a ‘Porky’... where can I find him?” John questions.

 

“Oh! It’s not on there?” Sally stops walking.

 

“Been blacked out...” John explains as he flips through some of the other sheets.

 

“That’s... odd...” Sally looks over, puzzled, and finds that John is right. “Huh, well you can look it up on the database or you could just ask Tobias - er, Gregson. His office is down that way,” she points to a hall down the right.

 

John is thankful for her help. Having transferred to the NSY department following a stint in Sussex after his recovery from injuries suffered in Afghanistan, he isn’t too familiar with everyone and where they are just yet. “Ta, I’ll go now and see if he’s in. Good luck with your case, Donovan.”

 

“You too John. Don’t get in too much trouble.” She winks as he makes his way in the direction she’d indicated.

 

 

 

 

 

John finds DI Gregson’s door and finding it closed, knocks politely.

 

“Yeah?” A low growling voice answers from within, presumably it belongs to DI Tobias Gregson.

 

John enters and spots a tall older man of greying blonde hair. His hulking figure is sitting behind a desk with a cigarette in his mouth looking at some papers, an expression of deep annoyance on his features. Behind him is a large window overlooking the street below. There are a few bookshelves in the room and a few medals displayed in different framed cases. Other than the medals there isn’t much else for decoration, not even little office knick-knacks or paper weights. Everything in the room speaks of a stern, practical man. “Hello, er, DI Gregson, I presume?”

 

“That’s what it says on the door.” Gregson growls. His eyes are a steely light blue and they look almost like ice chips, cold and calculating as he finally turns his gaze on John.

 

John stands up straight, unconsciously assuming parade’s rest, “Right, er, my name is Sergeant John Watson, I’m working with DI Lestrade on a case involving some arms dealers and I was told one of your informants might know something about the whereabouts of one of my suspects? I’d track him down myself but, the address has been blocked out, you see, and I-“

 

“And who in their right mind told you that I would I give _Lestrade_ the address of my informant?” He spits Greg’s name out like a curse.

 

“I- sorry?” John frowns at the man’s words.

 

But the man doesn’t seem to hear him, pressing forward, “What he’s too much of a coward to ask me himself?”

 

Now John feels himself bristle, this man seems terribly unprofessional, and though John doesn’t know Greg all that well he likes the man very much. He’s kind and seems like an honest person. “Excuse me?” His voice is quietly polite, but beneath it there’s a hint of danger.

 

“Listen, kid,” (John’s soft and dangerous glare intensifies - he is pushing forty and _this_ guy is calling _him_ a _kid_?) “I don’t know you and I don’t have a problem with you, but Lestrade’s gotta learn to be a man and do his own dirty work–”

 

“Greg didn’t ask me here.” John cuts in. Gregson looks slightly stunned but before he can say anything John continues, “Greg didn’t send me,” he repeats, more calmly, “I was looking through some files with Sally Donovan and I recognized a suspect of mine, but he’s got no known whereabouts. Sally told me he’s a street kid and that your man might know where he is. I decided to ask you for help on finding your man, since his address isn’t in his file, or it is, but it’s been blacked out. I came here to ask you on Sally’s suggestion, but if you don’t want to co-operate I’ll be on my way.” He stands his ground, waiting to see what the other man will say.

 

Tobias Gregson eyes John curiously. Finally, he concedes, “She’s a good kid, that Sally. Bit overly ambitious, but a good detective in the making.”

 

John says nothing.

 

“Which informant you lookin’ for, then?” Gregson asks gruffly.

 

The measuring gaze John gives him is somewhere between confused and intrigued, “Ah, um, Johnson, Shinwell Johnson.”

 

The other man looks perplexed, “Who?”

 

“Er, Porky?” John asks.

 

Gregson surprises him with a loud booming laugh, “Oh! Porky!” he sniffs, “I always forget his real name. Always just call him Porky. Aye, I know where to find him.”  
  
John hesitates, “W-will you tell me?”

 

Gregson stands up and grabs a long tan colored trench coat from behind his chair and dons it along with a grey fedora hat. He looks like a classic nineteen fifty’s film noir detective. “I’ll do even better – Watson, was it?” (“–Yes–” John answers as Tobias continues,) “Good, I’ll take you to him.”   

 

 

 

 

 

They find Shinwell in a dingy alley in a bad part of town. The man is huge, standing at least six feet tall with broad fighter’s shoulders, big muscular arms and huge meaty hands, the rest of his body matching him in every way. He easily towers over both John and Gregson. The first words he speaks to them are in a slow mean voice, “What’re you doin’ ‘ere den Toby? Ain’t I told yas not to come ‘round ‘ere while I’m workin’”  

 

Gregson doesn’t answer, “You know a Bill Wiggins?” He asks instead.

 

Shinwell eyes John then turns his gaze back to Tobias, “Can’t say I do.”

 

The DI raises a skeptical brow and pulls out twenty quid, “You sure about that?”

 

“I don’t know nuffin for twenty quid,” is the man’s answer.

 

The DI makes it a point to brush his coat aside to reveal a gun on his holster as he pulls his wallet out of his pocket to put the twenty quid back, “Yeah? That’s too bad.” Shinwell visibly swallows and glances at John again, this time with a hint of fear in his eyes when his eyes return to Gregson.

 

“I um… there might be a rumor ‘f a nurse they call The Wig layin’ low somewheres,”

 

“Ah, yeah, and you don’t happen to know _where_ , somewhere is, do you?” Gregson smiles nonchalantly.

 

“I… um.”

 

“Could be another twenty in it for you,” Gregson bribes, removing both the previous twenty and a new one from his wallet, “Nice offer, don’t you think? C’mon Porky, I’m feeling very magnanimous today. Don’t disappoint me…” There’s a threat veiled in the pleasant tone he uses.

 

“Look, I don’ know exactly where,” Shinwell begins – Gregson’s cold eyes turn threatening again, - “Er, but I’ve ‘eard it’s somewhere in ‘ackney, near Clapt’n. Is a broken lookin’ buildin’. There’s a distinct tag on it. A yellow eye.”

 

Gregson pushes the notes into Shinwell’s hand, “There’s a good chap. Wasn’t that easy?” Then, turning to John he says, “Got what you wanted?”

 

John is standing there, looking slightly stunned, that had been surprisingly easy. “Erm, yeah, that’s er, good. Thank you, Mr. Johnson, you were a great help.”

 

Shinwell just nods and looks to Gregson for dismissal. Tobias waves an arm at him impatiently to leave, but not before handing the man the promised forty quid. Shinwell takes the money with a muttered thanks and sprints away from them. He doesn’t look back. “Alright then Watson, you’ve got what you wanted so this is where I leave ya. I’ve got some business ‘round town, so I’ll be on my way. I’d appreciate it if you went on yours.” Gregson says after Johnson is out of sight.

 

John nods, “Yeah, yeah thanks a lot Detective Inspector, really, I appreciate it.” John had been extremely surprised at the fact that the man had decided to help him after all. He must really like Sally. Guess that means John owes her one. He starts making his way in the opposite direction that Shinwell went when Gregson startles him,

 

“Oh, and Watson? Tell Sally she owes me forty quid.” Gregson sounds slightly… playful?   


Bemused, he thinks that yep, he definitely owes Sally a favor. John answers, “I’ll make sure I tell her.” He leaves towards the streets to find a cab. Hopefully John will be able to find Bill Wiggins more easily now.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Bill is going about his daily life as quietly and as inconspicuously as is humanly possible in his situation. He’s still laying low and staying indoors as much as possible. He’s gotten money from his newly acquired ‘friends’ in exchange for menial medical attention and care and he only ever leaves to go out for supplies like food, medicines or cigarettes. He runs through packs of the damn things fairly quickly with the constant nagging of chemical temptation always nearby in this place, but he hasn’t given in yet. He _has_ , however, attempted to send word out to his friend to ask for a meeting, but he hasn’t received word back yet. The kid he’d sent with his message hasn’t been seen since Bill sent him. He hopes, if nothing else, that the kid’s alright.

 

It’s Tuesday morning today and Bill is starting to get really nervous. He’s never been in this deep with people like this. There’s a prickling on the back of his neck. It’s a feeling that’s been annoying him since Sunday afternoon. He feels like someone is watching him constantly and naturally the fear of it being true makes him jumpy. Bill’s fingers shake as he stands by a brick wall outside. He raises his left hand, his fourth cigarette of the morning already making its way towards his lips, a lighter in his other shaking hand bringing the flame towards it. He takes a long drag eyes closed as he lifts his head towards the clouded sky. A puff of smoke escapes his lips as he exhales, feeling just slightly more relaxed. He hears a sound then, and his eyes snap open. A little boy is standing at the edge of an alley ahead of him. The child watches him with a stony look in his eyes. Bill stands completely still. This isn’t the same child he’d sent to his friend, but he shakily accepts the worn looking coffee cup the child extends towards him anyway.

“Is about time,” He mumbles. “Did he say anything to ya?” Bill asks the kid, but the child keeps looking at him in that same disquieting manner and says nothing. He blinks his big creepy eyes, then backs away and runs away from Bill and back into the alley.

“Wait! Wait what?” Bill exclaims, but he doesn’t chase after the kid. He knows he probably won’t catch him. He’s learned by now that chasing a child of the streets is a lost cause. Instead Bill takes the lid off the cup and looks inside… then he drops it on the ground, its contents spilling at Bill’s feet. _Shit! Shit, shit, shit!_ He was right to be suspicious. This message, it’s not from Sherlock Holmes.

 

\-----------

 

Shinwell’s directions hadn’t been the most descriptive in the world, but John had found Wiggins soon enough. The sergeant sat in the back of a broken-down car, hidden inside the decrepit old thing with the front window facing the structure within which he knew Bill Wiggins hid. He’d found him earlier this weekend and had started following him around. It wasn’t something he was strictly ordered to do (probably wasn’t supposed to be doing) but Lestrade hadn’t really questioned him about it yet so…   
            He finds himself watching Bill throughout the few days he’s been trailing him doing nothing outwardly suspicious. The decrepit building he has been hiding in is very obviously filled with squatting smack-heads, if the dirty looking men and women entering and/or exiting the building as John stakes it out are any indication, but Bill himself seems remarkably sober. A little jumpy, sure, but nothing like the others that come and go. John hasn’t caught him dealing either, not unless he’s dealing within the same building he’s squatting at, which John doubts. Throughout the days Bill stops a few places, buys a few things (food, medicine, cigarettes), but always he comes back to the old building before dark and doesn’t leave again until morning. It’s Tuesday morning now and John finds that Bill finally leads does something suspicious.  
  
            The police officer watches the man this afternoon from his car. Wiggins has been smoking his fourth cigarette of the day. John wrinkled his nose at the thought about the state of his lungs as he sees Bill startle. A young boy has approached him from a nearby alley. The young boy hands Wiggins a cup of coffee and leaves, without having said anything. Wiggins looks to be visibly shaken for a moment before he opens the cup. He glances around suspiciously, and not spotting John from this angle promptly drops the cup. Watson is way too far to see it from here but he watches Wiggins for any sort of indication or clue about what could be scaring him so much. He’d seen nothing but a small piece of paper fall out of the cup as it fell to the ground. The gangly fellow doesn’t really give anything away about what it might say, but he does begin to pace. He runs a hand through his unkempt hair and swears. Finally, he picks up the cup and the paper, along with what seems like a few random pebbles…? Once Bill has all those items in hand he begins to briskly make his way down the street. John takes advantage of the man’s back being turned away from him to exit the vehicle and begin tailing him. He casually blends into the light crowd of people walking to and fro as he and Wiggins walk into a more populated area. Wiggins is very keyed up and he stops frequently to look behind him. John, however, is amazing at hiding in plain sight and is never spotted. He notes that it seems like Bill senses someone is following him, but he doesn’t know for sure if someone is actually back there. He doesn’t outwardly make it a point to try and lose whoever he might be afraid is following him anyway, and that works out for John just as well. John follows him for hours as the jumpy man walks and walks and walks, never once stopping to take a break. Approximately two hours later when they’re in a much nicer neighborhood the nervous man stops at a relatively ordinary-looking building entrance next to a cafe and knocks. An older woman in a floral print dress opens the door. He speaks to her in what looks like an urgent tone and gestures inside, while pulling out the slip of paper from earlier and showing her the cup. As he talks the older woman nods and finally she signals for him to come inside, closing the door behind her. 

John narrows his eyes. He can’t very well follow him in. John sighs and decides that the best thing to do is to go into the cafe to wait on Wiggins to come back out to see what does next. He sincerely hopes there’s no back exit that the man can lose him from. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't really re-read this for any mistakes, but I did write this chapter over and over a few times. I thought it wasn't as long as the last one, but it turns out it it's about the same, which is good because I wanted to separate it from the upcoming first few paragraphs in the upcoming chapter. You'll see why when you read it, i guess. Sorry that part's not finished yet. I've been busy :( 
> 
> In the meantime, I really love Bill Wiggins from BBC Sherlock, but if you haven't seen Tom Brooke on Preacher as Fiore, I suggest you watch it just for him. He's a hella gay angel and I love it. Also Cassidy. He's such a dweeb. Pay no attention to the abusive prick that is the Preacher himself though. He's a dillweed. 
> 
> ANYWAY SEE YOU NEXT TIME!


	4. They warned me about you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John interact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, guys, I've been really busy with work and trying to find a new place. #Drama Anyway here's the newest chapter. I'm working on the rest.  
> As usual I have no betas or anything so I hope you will forgive me for the spelling mistakes, grammar mistakes - the constant present/past tense changes (i always mess up when writing in present tense but I also really like writing in present tense). I do read through the chapters twice before I post them but I always end up missing something. I'll do my best to go back and edit them when I do find errors, but again, I do apologize.

 

“Mrs Hudson, what have I told you about letting in the rabble?” Sherlock asks testily from the kitchenette/laboratory. He keeps his eyes on a slide as Mrs. Hudson, a thin sweet looking older woman in a floral print dress, walks a dingy but familiar figure into his home. She tuts at Sherlock and says kindly, to the figure, “Don’t you pay him any mind, dear, you sit down here–”

“Billy if you’re going to sit, do put down a newspaper first.” Sherlock says from the Kitchen. 

“Sherlock!” The woman reprimands him. 

Sherlock finally looks up from his slide and grins devilishly at the old woman. 

“Is alright mum, I’ll, uh, I'll stand.” Billy says, his voice trembling slightly. Mrs. Hudson tuts again, but doesn’t argue, choosing instead to walk away toward the kitchen to prepare some tea, glaring at Sherlock, who rolls his eyes and flicks a hand for her to go away. Billy doesn’t pay any attention and continues speaking to Sherlock, “Shez, I-i know you says never to come here an’ all that-“

“Then why did you deliberately disobey?” Sherlock asks, casually as Mrs. Hudson putters around the kitchen mumbling under her breath about the state of it and the mess Sherlock has in there. “Don’t touch that Mrs. Hudson, it’s an experiment,” He says distractedly and Mrs. Hudson slams a cupboard and Billy answers defensively,

“I’ve a good reason, 'aven’t I?”

“Somehow, I doubt it.” Sherlock says, but walks into the living room where Billy is standing and flops onto a chair nonchalantly. He flicks his fingers in the direction of a nearby couch. Billy, however, remains standing and positions himself before Sherlock, looking at him imploringly,

“I’m not ‘aving a laugh,” he urgently says, “Some shit went down th’ other night and… Well, that Moran guy, ‘e’s serious, ‘inn'ee? He’s gone and sent me a warnin’ an’… Shezza, I can’t keep doin’ this for ya, an’ I don’t fink you should be messin’ around wiff these guys neither. They’re serious trouble, these people.”

Sherlock stares at Billy and hisses, “What happened?” He hissed, “Start at the beginning, leave nothing out.”

Billy sighs and finally he drops down to sit, but not on the couch Sherlock had gestured to. He sits in front of Sherlock instead, on a chair with a union jack pillow on it, which faces the chair Sherlock currently occupies. Sherlock’s left eye twitches but he says nothing and gestures impatiently for Billy to talk as the man leans forward and runs his hands through his hair in exasperation.

“Well, it all started when I started workin’ for that Porlock guy you ‘ad me to contact through our friend a few months ago. I did everything you asked and finally they asked me to go to a meetin’ with ‘em, which I told you about, remember? I sent word -“

“Yes, yes, I recall, go on,”

Mrs. Hudson comes over and sets a tray with two teacups on a small table beside Billy’s chair. Billy takes a cup, gratefully and smiles at the old woman. He takes a sip and Sherlock taps his foot impatiently. He looks pointedly at the old woman then to the door. Mrs. Hudson gives Sherlock a stern look, but leaves the apartment, recognizing Sherlock’s very clear dismissal. Finally Billy starts talking,

“Well, I went wiff ‘em and turns out they was dealin’ in some serious stuff. Fred, he didn’t tell me nuffin’. He just told me to meet ‘im at an old shop. And so I go, and when I get there, there’s all these guys. One of ‘em goes an’ asks me, ‘who are you then?’ and I just says, ‘I’m with Fred, ‘e told me to to meet him ‘ere’ and the guy just goes ‘alright,’ and they let me in. They’re all quiet like, but I can tell none of ‘em are particularly worried about me bein’ there. They look more impatient, really. It’s a few minutes and finally Fred gets there and the guys start pullin’ out all these things from their bags and it’s a bunch of weapons and bombs and such…” 

Sherlock has been listening intently but now his eyes widen and he sits up suddenly, realizing just what Billy is saying to him right now and interrupting his story he queries, “What the HELL was Fred Porlock doing at an arms deal? Why the _hell_ did he bring _you_?” 

“Well, I dunno, do I? Some twats wen’ an crashed their car into the shop and blew the whole fing, next thing I know there’s all this shooting and coppers are everywhere. I got out of there as fast as I could, but Fred was right mad. Says I must ‘ave talked or that I wasn’t careful. He finks it’s my fault the cops were there, what with me bein’ on probation an’ all - and those other guys, turns out they were Moran’s own guys chasin’ after some stupid-“

“Stop, stop, stop! Stop talking!” Sherlock shouts. This is an extremely unexpected turn of events. “I need to think!” Sherlock says, his eyes flicking back and forth while he tries to wrap his mind around the newly acquired information. So that arms deal Sherlock had unwittingly disrupted was connected to his case with Moran…

Billy frowns and stares at Sherlock, then he thrusts a paper coffee cup at Sherlock, “What about this then?” He says.

Sherlock glares at Billy’s interruption of his thoughts, but takes the cup. Inside there’s a note with Billy’s full name, a time (6:45pm), and the address of two of Billy’s frequent squatting hide-outs along with five orange pips. 

“We need to go. Wait, no.” Sherlock says, “Wait here, I’m going to go change.” He rushes to his bedroom as Billy nods, and moves to go stand by the door. Inwardly, Bill is worried about Sherlock and just what he might be getting himself into with him this time. Knowing Sherlock, it probably won’t be good.

—————

It’s almost an hour before John finally sees Bill Wiggins exit through the front door of the building next door. John had been sitting at an angle looking out from the window of the shop at the door since he’d seen Bill go in. When Bill exits the building, however, he comes out followed by a tall lanky male figure wearing a hooded sweat shirt and sweatpants that are too big for the thin frame that wears them. John doesn’t catch a glimpse of Bill’s new friend’s face because the hood is pulled low over it and the two men are walking in the opposite direction of the one John is facing. 

Seeing them get further and further away, Watson quickly stands up and grabs his coat, prepared to tail Bill and his new companion to wherever it is they’re going. Hopefully they’ll lead him to John’s original mark from the night Wilson was injured. Fred Porlock couldn’t hide from the law forever. John just hopes that Bill Wiggins doesn’t turn out to be a dead lead.

————

“Someone is following us.” Sherlock tells Billy as they make their way to the underground station. 

“What?” Bill exclaims, worried, “Where?”

“Don’t look, idiot!” Sherlock growls, pulling Billy’s arm as he makes an attempt to turn around. “We’ll lose him in the underground, quick, come with me.” Sherlock pushes Bill towards the upcoming staircase leading to the trains below.

“Oi!” Bill says, irritated, but begins dashing down the steps in time with Sherlock. Some steps behind them a blond man of average height and build begins to pick up his pace slightly. Sherlock and Bill don’t outwardly run, but their speed increases as they get onto the platform and they outright sprint into the first train that opens its doors.

The blond man manages to get on the train with them. Bill and Sherlock look at each other, panicked before they start to make their way from cart to cart as inconspicuously as possible. The man doesn’t seem to be giving up though, and Sherlock is afraid he’ll catch up to them soon.  
  
“Listen to me Billy,” He hisses as they speed walk between the other passengers, “I need you to get to Green Line Coach Station - once there get to number 44 Eaton Square – it’s just round the corner. Once you get there ask for Kate, tell her the vicar sent you. Kate is a friend of mine, she’s going to keep you to safe. I’ll come back and look for you. Alright?”  
  
  
Bill stares at Sherlock, worried, “Alright… ‘ang on, whot about you den?”

  
“Oh, don’t worry about me Billy.” Sherlock smirks, pulling his scarf up to cover his face and securing it tightly, “I can handle this moron.”

 

\-------

  
            John is sure they know he’s following them now, but he really doesn’t want to make a scene, so he continues his semi-calm pace, knowing that if he’s smart about how he walks through the crowd of people on the underground instead of pushing through them like his suspects are doing, that he’ll catch up to them soon enough.

            They’ve passed a few stops when suddenly Bill Wiggins takes off at a run and his friend hurls himself towards John. He moves fast and John barely has time to think before he’s tackled to the ground by the wiry figure. People scream and break away from them as John struggles with the man, fighting him for control. He takes a calming breath as the man on top of him pulls back. John is about to exhale when a punch lands squarely on his jaw. That certainly pisses John off and he sees red. He thrusts his hips upwards and, surprising his attacker, forces him to the ground beside him where John twists and slams him to against the floor, not hard enough to permanently hurt him but enough to make the guy dizzy. John rushes to stand and chase Bill towards the next car, but the man grabs hold of John and he trips, landing with his belly down his arms forward and outstretched, reaching. John can taste the tell-tale flavor of metallic liquid in his mouth. He growls and twists in his assailant’s grip, standing and launching himself towards the skinny bastard. The man stands swiftly and gracefully, however, and is out of John’s reach before John can properly stand.

            “Alright,” John says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looks at the attacker with a determined gaze, “you want to play? Let’s play.”

            The attacker is wearing a scarf over his face making it impossible for John to recognize him or see the expression on his face. He has the distinct impression, though, that the man is grinning as he extends his left hand forward while his other makes a fist, and beckons John forward. The challenge is clear, ‘ _come and get me,_ ’ Watson does not disappoint. He launches himself forward with a roar.

            As the men begin to fight it becomes obvious to John that this thin fellow is a very competent boxer. He throws a mean punch, but John was in the army – he was _trained_ for this, and he would not let some street punk beat him up on the underground. The guy is tall and quick, but that just means that if John gets him up close, the advantage will be on his end. John strikes and feints, swerving out of the way of the thin man’s assault but always pushing forward. They fight this way, losing and taking ground from each other as the train stops and starts at several stations. They move from one cart to the other, chasing viciously and startling passengers in their wake. John is frankly surprised no one has pressed the emergency stop button so far, though he doesn’t have much time to think about that as he continues to battle Wiggin’s companion. Finally, the stranger’s back slams against a pole in the centre of the aisle. The man jerks in surprise. John smirks and aims to push forward and slam the man further onto it, but he’s too slow and the man in front of him grips the pole with both pale hands. With the agility of a dancer the man flings himself around it in a wide graceful swoop and kicks John in the chest with both legs. John flies backwards in surprise. The people on the train flinch, some running further away from the commotion, others squeezing themselves against the seats and walls of the train to get out of their way.

            John glares ferociously and springs forward once more. As predicted the attacker tries to swing forth on the pole once more, but John knows it’s coming this time. Right before he reaches the wiry bastard John drops to his knees, sliding forward and catches one hand on the pole before he slides too far away. With his other hand he procures his hand-cuffs and traps Wiggin’s friend, locking him by the wrist to the pole he’d used for leverage. The lanky man loses his momentum and balance. He falls to the ground panting and sweating, one of his hands now secured in place. Behind the man, John takes hold of his other hand and holds it to the stranger’s back. “Got you.” He feels the man glare as he struggles in John’s grip. Watson smirks, flashing his badge with one hand, continuing to hold the other man in place with the other, “Oh, and you’re under arrest, by the way, in case it wasn’t apparent.”      
  
            The train erupts into applause from the innocent by-standers. Someone finally presses the emergency stop button and the train begins to slow to a halt while a voice announces that there’s been an emergency.

            The man John holds leans his back and two startlingly beautiful fierce green eyes glare at him - eyes that seem remarkably familiar, despite the fact that if this is who John thinks it is, are eyes he’s only seen once. John’s brows furrow and he reaches the hand he’d used to flash his badge forward to pull at the scarf covering the stranger’s face down so he can confirm his suspicions.

            “Mister Holmes?” John gasps as the sharp lines of the man’s face are revealed.

            Mister Holmes gives him a fiery look that screams murder. “Pig,” Holmes Hisses at him through his teeth. 

            John huffs, bemused. “Oh, now I see why they felt they had to warn me about you.” He flashes his own teeth in an insincere grin, “I’m sorry Mister Holmes, but you’ve just assaulted and officer of the law - in a public space filled with civilians no less - while deliberately obstructing the course of justice by preventing me from chasing down a primary suspect in a major crime. I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you down to the station.”

\-----  
  
            John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are met with a standing ovation as John walks into the station with Holmes in custody, his hands firmly locked in front of him. There are wolf whistles and loud jeering along with the applause. Sherlock feels himself  vibrating with fury as people come forward to clap Sergeant Watson on the back and _thank_ him for this ‘great deed to humanity’. _Idiots._ At least Watson seems a little uncomfortable with the praise as he gently pushes Sherlock forward towards an interrogation room. Serves him right for humiliating Sherlock like this - but as another moron comes forward to give the Sergeant their congratulations, Sherlock swears to himself and, holding his head high, makes an inner vow as he stares forward stonily. He’ll have Watson’s head for this, or at the very least, his job.

            “Er… Sorry about that.” Sergeant Watson mumbles as he closes the door of the interrogation room that they’ve entered. This makes Sherlock blink for a second in confusion. “Not very professional of them, I don’t think…” He trails off, coming forward to offer Sherlock a chair at the plain table set in the middle of the room. Sherlock frowns, but sits in the uncomfortable standard seat and allows Watson to unlock his cuffs gently. He’s surprised Watson doesn’t lock him to the table since Sherlock _had_ been brought in for hitting the officer, but he says nothing.

            The Sergeant sits down in his own chair across the table and taking a small notepad and pen from the far corner of the table he uncaps the pen. He keeps it hovering above the paper as he considers Sherlock and questions, casually, “So, Mister Holmes, are you going to tell me why you initiated an altercation with me on the underground today?”

            Sherlock takes a long hard look at the officer and, examining him silently, he lists the things he’s learned about him in the few short moments since he’s met him in his mind. The man has got a stiff yet commanding posture, short hair, a slight tan - though not above the wrist. He’s Tenacious. Has a strong moral character, and seems marginally clever. His earlier fighting style was very precise. He is remarkably well-trained. This man is clearly ex-military - invalidated out, obviously, but for a second Sherlock can’t think of why he would be, considering he is fit enough to be a police officer. His subconscious mind provides the answer to that, though. As he recalls their earlier skirmish, he realizes that the man has some damage to his left shoulder - probably what has brought him home from war. Sherlock wonders though, what’s made him stay in London as a police officer, instead of returning to a war he obviously misses? Choosing to be an officer of the law would hardly help a man forget the sort of atrocities one sees in war. Enforcing the law against the criminal underbelly is not unlike a war in and of itself. One of the Watson’s fingers on his left hand twitches slightly as he waits for Sherlock to answer him – _running low on patience_ – and Sherlock blurts the question: “Afghanistan or Iraq,” into the quiet room though he doesn’t really meant to ask that out loud.

             “I’m sorry, what?” Sergeant Watson responds, completely thrown off by the sudden question.

            Well, he’s already asked, so he might as well get his answer, “You,” Sherlock gestures in the man’s direction with a slight flick of his hand, “Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

            The Sergeant blinks at him, “That’s not… how…? No, never mind – Afghanistan if you must know, but” he shakes his head slightly, “look, I’m asking the questions here, Mr. Holmes.”

            Sherlock tilts his head at the Sergeant and sits back in his chair. “Your questions are boring,” he says imperiously.

            Watson’s expression is one of slight annoyance now, though a ghost of a smile seems to have just flickered in his mouth. Then again maybe Sherlock has just imagined that as Sergeant Watson replies thinly, “Well, tough. I didn’t bring you here to entertain you. Now tell me why you assaulted me on the train earlier. Do you know something about the arms dealer case we’re working on that you’re not telling us, Mr. Holmes?”

             Sherlock looks around the interrogation room. He pretends to study the blank walls and passes his gaze over the two-way mirror, behind which, he is sure, probably half of Scotland yard are trying to pile over to see him squirm. _Fools,_ like he has anything to worry about. “I don’t know anything about your case, Sergeant.” Sherlock answers smoothly. It’s the truth. He doesn’t know anything in particular about the case other than what Bill has told him - that Porlock is an arms dealer, and this is something that the police already know (otherwise why would they have been at the arms deal Billy had been attending?). Of course, Sherlock _suspects_ Porlock works for Moran, but he doesn’t have any proof, so _technically_ he can’t say for a _fact_ that Porlock _is_ working for him, and _therefore_ he knows nothing of the case which he isn’t telling the police. Not a lie.

            “Really?” Watson sits back in his chair, eyeing Sherlock speculatively. His tone is dripping with disbelief.

            Sherlock gives him a sly smile and says, mockingly, “Why officer, you don’t believe me?”

            “Well, as I said, they did warn me about you. I’ve been told by many not to trust you as far as I can throw you.” Watson replies.

            Sherlock narrows his eyes at that, “Hmm, yes, I’m sure you’ve hear many unsavory things concerning my character. Believing in petty rumors is a bit beneath you, Sergeant. It’s disappointing.”

            The Sergeant appears a little uncomfortable hearing that, but he doesn’t address it. Instead he says, “Well then, there’s the fact that you did assault me and you were hanging around with my suspect. He got away because you distracted me. You can’t tell me you didn’t know what you were doing back there on the train.” He gives Sherlock a knowing look, “And you can’t tell me you didn’t know that he was involved in questionable activities. Your denial that you’re not somehow connected to all this would seem highly unlikely to me since you’ve been known to cross paths with other police investigations in the past. I’m told you’re a consultant and that you’ve even assisted in some. You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Holmes if I don’t believe a word you’ve said.” He stops and something in his posture – in his expression, seems suddenly very fierce and commanding. “Whatever you’re hiding I’m going to find out about it one way or another so you may as well tell me now. Especially since you owe it to me and my partner to do so.”

“Do I, now?” Sherlock snarls.  
  
            “Well you did cause an immense explosion that could have killed us both the evening of the arms deal. You know, when you crashed a sports car into a van full of explosives? Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes, I know about that. You want to know how I know? I’ll tell you. I was the officer in the car after the van, along with my partner. We were investigating that case when you crashed a car into the fucking wall and caused the car chase that resulted in another collision. Do you have something against motor vehicles? Because you should really find a safer way to take out your aggressions than crashing them, Mr. Holmes. Oh, and you’re aware that Wilson is in serious condition in the hospital, right? Or didn’t you bother to learn the name of the man you almost killed with your, frankly, reckless behavior?” As he speaks John’s voice has gotten angrier, his seemingly calm composure lost in the face of Sherlock’s indifferent attitude.

            Sherlock says nothing and for a moment it seems like the space too quiet. He swallows and looks at anything but Watson’s face. He was… unaware about the fate of the officers of that evening. He had been so pre-occupied with his investigations against Moran – about being so close. He shifts in his seat a little and takes a breath. Finally, he speaks, “Billy… is an associate of mine.” He replies. His eyes are trained somewhere behind the Sergeant, but he still feels the slight shock that goes through the man as he hears Sherlock speak. He’s vaguely aware that the man has started scribbling on the notepad as Sherlock continues, “He’s also currently my client. Occasionally I ask him for favors to help me in my private investigations…” He hesitates, suddenly uneasy under Sergeant Watson’s keen blue eyes. “He was… he was spying on Porlock for me. I didn’t know he was an arms dealer. I didn’t think he was particularly very dangerous, just…” and here Sherlock has to pick his words very carefully, because while he has no problem lying to the police, it won’t do to be caught doing so. He doesn’t want to mention his suspicions on Moran just yet. Any small whisper of it getting back to Moran could ruin his whole investigation, but what he can mention are small portions of his previous case. An Idea pops into Sherlock’s head and he runs with it, “… just… I had been working a case, for a different client – a stolen painting – the Reichenbach Falls, do you know it? No, not important. I didn’t think Porlock had stolen it or anything. I had a different suspect in mind – the one I was investigating the night I er… interrupted your case. I made a slight miscalculation and I ended up on your side of town by complete co-incidence, I assure you. The men behind the case I was on were more dangerous than I could have predicted. The first vehicle I… incapacitated, was meant as a distraction for me to get away from them. As you know, that didn’t work out so well when it ended up, as the Americans would say, ‘crashing your party’. I had no idea Porlock would be there.” Sherlock dares to look at Sergeant Watson – he wants to see the expression, hopes the man believes him.

            Watson stares at Sherlock with a strange intensity, “Okay, so how does that fit in with your friend’s spying on Porlock and why didn’t you know about the arms deal?”

            Sherlock doesn’t smile because he’s afraid that if he does Watson will suspect he isn’t telling him the whole truth, but he continues with more faith that he will at least be given the benefit of the doubt, “The painting that was stolen belonged to a prestigious art gallery. It is priceless. My client, the owner of the gallery, suspected a few ‘patrons’ of having been culprits behind the thievery. I was invited to a small gala hosted by the gallery owner to meet some of his patrons. I never got the chance to speak to Porlock, not for very long anyway, but he seemed to be hiding _something_. I didn’t decide to investigate him myself at the time because I later met with a woman who seemed a lot more likely to be the thief. I continued with my investigation on her, but I did end up sending Billy after Porlock. I asked him to befriend his crew and get close to him, mostly out of curiosity – I do that sometimes. It turned out I wasn’t wrong about the woman, she had hired some people to help her steal the work of art – though I never found the piece or got any evidence that she was behind it because of the events of the other night. The men she was working with were more dangerous than mere thieves and I found myself under attack. Meanwhile, Billy had been invited to meet with Porlock, but he hadn’t told me where or why. Apparently he wasn’t told either, was just picked up by another crew member, given a gun and was left at the shop Porlock had used to set up the deal. Then you showed up, and then I did, and…”

            “Yes, and all hell broke loose,” Watson finishes for him.

            Sherlock’s eye twitches in irritation. He sniffs, “Yes, well, you know that bit. The bit you don’t know is that Billy went into hiding, fearing that as the newer member of Porlock’s crew he would be blamed for any seeming betrayals. He was right to be afraid as this morning he received a warning in the form of five Orange Pips and a note, which indicate that he will be harmed. He came to me for help, and that Sergeant is all I know.”

            Sergeant Watson finishes scrawling a few words onto his pad – his shorthand seems to be very precise but his writing is absolutely atrocious. Sherlock can barely read it – granted it is upside down, but in this moment he sees it suddenly – the answer to his previous question, why this man cannot return to war – this man is not just a soldier. This man is… or was, a doctor. His injury probably prevents him from performing his duty as one. Before Sherlock can voice his thoughts on this discovery, Sergeant Watson speaks, “I’m going to need the name of the gallery owner and the gallery for which you were working on your previous case, Mr. Holmes. I will also need the name of the woman you suspect stole the painting. I hate to step on any toes, but as a civilian, you are not to engage with violent criminals, besides your connections may prove helpful with my case. I’m also going to need any notes or evidence you may have found, and last, I _will_ still be needing to speak to your friend, Billy. You’re going to have to tell me where you sent him.”

            Sherlock stiffens, revealing Billy’s whereabouts to the police could prove to be dangerous for the young man, and his notes for his investigation on the Reichenbach falls reveal too much about his Moran case. “And if I don’t co-operate?” Sherlock asks and the glare Sergeant Watson throws his way is enough to make Sherlock re-consider having just said that. He remains silent though, refusing to back-track.

            “Mr. Holmes,” Watson says, with a smile that is all teeth and eyes that threaten, “I hesitate to say something so corny, but believe me when I say that we can either work this out the easy way, or we can work it out the hard way. Either way, you will co-operate.”

            Sherlock glares in return, starting into the intense blue eyes of the ex-doctor Watson. He leans forward, a hand under his chin as he smiles in return, “Is that an order, Sergeant Watson,” he purrs, “or a threat?”

            Sergeant Watson’s grin widens, “It’s anything you need it to be to co-operate.” Sherlock isn’t sure if he likes Sergeant Watson, or if he hates him with the intensity of a thousand suns.

            “As you wish,” He finally relents, “I will take you to Billy.” Sherlock says nothing about his notes.

            The Sergeant raises a brow at the wording, “And your case notes on the painting?”

            “You’ll get them,” Sherlock says through gritted teeth.

            Sergeant Watson smirks, “Alright then Mr. Holmes, take me to Billy.” He stands and pulls the door of the interrogation room open and gestures for Sherlock to lead the way. “After you,” He says.

            Sherlock stands up as gracefully as he can manage and leads the Sergeant out of the station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are very very far from the Big Case in this story. I just want to let you guys know. I've got the whole story mapped out and yeah... they're going to go through this case and then things are going to pick up with the more intense case of the children so the boys are just starting to get to know each other and yeah... they're far from close to being lovers just yet. They've only just officially met so I hope you're up for the wait.


	5. The Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock introduces John to his protege and to an interesting friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay first of all, apologies for the delay.  
> Second, apologies for the short length of the chapter. 
> 
> There are many reasons why it turned out this way, but i'll explain that in endnotes, if you really want to know.
> 
> Also more apologies because I have not proof read this chapter.

The Woman

            A woman with long wavy black hair and pale skin lies sleeping peacefully ensconced in a large four-poster bed centered on the back wall of a huge room that is darkened by very thick, heavy curtains. A grandfather clock ticks softly in one corner in time with the rhythm of her light snores. On the other side of the double-doors of this room is a bright white hallway through which a different woman, slim with auburn hair and also pale, creeps softly. The slim woman stops just outside the double doors, hesitates for a second and then knocks lightly. The sleeping woman squirms and mumbles, “Kate?” she hears the door of the room open and her brow wrinkles even before she hears the familiar voice whispering, “We have a visitor.”

Keeping her eyes closed the dark haired woman she reaches for her mobile phone sat just within reach at the night table. She blinks blearily and squints at the light of the phone’s screen as she checks the time. She sits up and rubs at one of her eyes, yawning. “So early? What do they want,” she asks, her voice rough with sleep. 

            Kate smiles at her sweetly and answers, “I don’t know, but he was sent by the Vicar,” she replies as she moves over to a wardrobe.

            The dark-haired woman blinks, suddenly more awake, “Oh. I suppose I ought to get something on then.”

            With another smile Kate crosses to the bed, a soft silk robe in hand, “Yes, I think you rather should.”

\----

 

Bill stands in a large elegant room in one of the poshest homes he’s ever been in. The place is so clean and … _white_ that he’s afraid to move from the spot the woman who’d answered to door had left him at. He looks around and thinks that while Sherlock may have joked( _…?_ ) about Billy having to put a newspaper down before he sits anywhere in his messy apartment, he might actually have to do that here. It is immaculate and he has no idea why Sherlock would possibly send him here. He’s sure that it isn’t any place of Mycroft’s as Mycroft isn’t too fond of Bill, what with Bill having been Sherlock’s dealer in the past. That, and the rather modern furnishing and styling of the home seems too… delicate for Mycroft’s tastes. Not that Bill knew much about him other than his fondness for umbrellas and pocket watches and three-piece suits…

            Bill distractedly moves to stand before the fire place of this sitting room. He stares into a large mirror above it, looking past his scruffy face and ignoring the watery look of his slightly glassy sunken eyes. Nervously, he taps a finger at the edge of the mantel as he worries over Sherlock. The man had been so sure he could handle himself against their follower but Billy isn’t convinced. Sure, Sherlock was a good boxer. He is certainly frightening to see in a street fight, but if this stalker has been hired by Moran… well, Bill has his doubts about Sherlock’s prowess against one of _them_. He hopes Sherlock has escaped. He hopes Sherlock makes it back here, because he has no idea just how much he can tell this Kate woman about his… predicament.

            The sound of one of the large dark stained wood doors slamming open snaps Bill out of his reverie. He twitches, but doesn’t turn around immediately. Instead, he watches as a wiry beautiful dark haired woman with pale skin, bright red lips and piercing green eyes saunters into the room, wearing what appears to be nothing other than a silk robe and stiletto heels. He realizes that as she walks in she is saying, “I don’t think Kate caught your name…” Her eyes meet Bill’s in the mirror. In this moment Bill feels a slight chill run down his spine as her gaze pins him down and seems to bore into him in a very familiar fashion.

 _Another Holmes?_ He wonders. Bill stares openly into her eyes but he finds that he’s beginning to feel uneasy with his back turned to her. She reminds him so much of Sherlock, “No… I,” He swallows as he turns to her and bravely looks directly into her eyes, “The- the Vicar sent me. He said to ask for Kate?”

“Yes, darling, and you met Kate. Kate is my partner, but when ‘The Vicar’ sends a friend and tells them to ask for Kate, what he actually means is, ask for me.” The woman smiles kindly at him, “Don’t look so frightened dear, I’m harmless.” (She winks at this comment,) “Well, mostly harmless. Go on, have a seat. Tell me all about your troubles.”

“I…” Bill hesitates. He’s jumpy, he can feel it and he doesn’t want to feel like he’s showing this woman any weakness. She might say she’s (mostly) harmless, but that doesn’t seem the case. There’s something about her. He just can’t seem to get a read on her and that, in the past, has always proved dangerous for Bill. Exhibit A: Sherlock Holmes, who has gotten him into various frightening predicaments, i.e. this moment, right now.

“I promise you dear, I don’t bite. Have a seat, don’t make a girl wait. You’ll make her feel self-conscious,” The lady pouts, “like her help isn’t wanted.”

Bill swallows, definitely dangerous.

\----------

  
            “Where are you taking me, exactly?” John asks as he follows Mr. Holmes out onto a street of very expensive looking homes.

            Mr. Holmes turns his head in John’s direction with an irritated expression on his face. He doesn’t dignify the question with an answer. Instead he sniffs and turns suddenly onto the steps of one of the houses, number forty-four, John notes as he follows behind Mr. Holmes. He stands behind him on the steps as the other man wrings the doorbell. After a short while a woman’s voice sounds over the intercom, “Visiting hours are after six.” She states.

            “Kate, it’s me, I need to see my friend.” Mr. Holmes expresses sharply into the intercom.

            “Ah, yes, excuse me.” She says, and she opens the door. When she opens it she stands aside gracefully, allowing the two men to enter. She’s beautiful, John thinks, with her big blue eyes and the figure of a dancer. She smiles sweetly at them as she closes the door behind them and locks it. John notices that her gaze lingers on Mr. Holmes with a slight hint of amusement as she extends an arm and leads them towards a sitting room decorated in pale tones and cream colored furniture. The place looks immaculate. Holmes sits down on a sofa and John follows. The auburn haired woman looks at them with an expression of approval and says, to Mr. Holmes, “I’ll just go get her, shall I?” She exits towards the hall and John hears her shout, from his position on the couch, “Dear, the vicar’s just arrived…”

            John turns to the other man in confusion and clears his throat. He’s not sure what to say so he just asks, “The Vicar?”

            “It’s our code.” Holmes answers tersely. John smirks a little.

“Okay.” Is all he says. Clearly, the private detective is still upset about John ‘taking over his case’, then. The other man avoids eye contact with John and simply plays with his phone as John openly watches him. He takes this moment to study Mr. Holmes, knowing full well that his staring will probably just add to his irritation and enjoying that just a little bit too much. The consultant just radiates such an air of privilege and arrogance, and John can’t help but push his buttons a little. It’s really a shame that the stories of Sherlock Holmes that the other police officers had shared with him were proving to be true, because John thought that Mr. Holmes was rather quite attractive, with his slim figure (hidden though it was under those loose baggy garments he was currently donning), his perfect cheek bones and those gorgeous curls. And those eyes, John had never seen such eyes. Intelligence and intensity within two green pools that seemed to hold the answers to the universe… and they belonged to a man who had pettily chosen not to speak to John the whole way here. He’d walked with long strides and never looked back, as if implying, with his whole attitude the words ‘ _keep up’_. John _had_ kept up, despite his annoyance at the other man’s unprofessional attitude, but that just seems to have upset him more. He tries again for conversation as they sit waiting, presumably for Billy to appear, “So…” John starts.

“Shut up.” Mr. Holmes answers grumpily as the door Kate had walked out of slams open. John doesn’t have time to be appalled as his outrage is interrupted when a woman’s voice speaks.

“Sherlock, darling, good to see you dear.” She says, and when the men turn to look in her direction John lets out a slightly choked noise. The woman is completely naked but for a pair of high heeled Louboutin shoes. She slinks her way over and stands uncomfortably close in front of Holmes. John notices, deciding to bring his eyes to Mr. Holmes, with a slight blush on his face and trying to avoid staring at the nude woman, that the other man doesn’t seem the least bit perturbed as he rolls his eyes, looking straight into the woman’s face.

“Really?” Holmes says, deadpan, gesturing at her naked body.

John follows the consultant’s gaze to her face, swallowing thickly as he watches her smile and turn her predatory stare on John. She bites her lip in mirth and says, “Irene Adler, and you are?”

John clears his throat, “Er, I’m - Sergeant John Watson. I’m with er… with Scotland yard -” he turns to Holmes, “- Sorry I thought you said we were going to see Bill Wiggins?”

Sherlock Holmes’ lips twitch and he suddenly looks amused, which makes John’s face heat up a bit more, “What’s the matter, John?” He asks, in a low rumbling tone around John’s first name, “Don’t know where to look? Feeling a little… exposed?” 

            “Oh, I think he knows exactly where.” Miss Adler chimes in before John can answer, turning bodily towards John and giving him her full attention. She takes a moment to stare John down. John says nothing, merely concentrating on her face. He feels himself swallow again and is slightly mortified to see her lip twitch before she turns back to Holmes, “Still not sure about you, dear.”

            Holmes is wearing a shit-eating grin on his face now, his amusement very clearly evident. He stands and looks down at Irene as he says, “If I wanted to see you naked again I would have said yes the _first_ time you asked me to dinner.” He reaches down to pull the loose hooded sweatshirt he’s wearing up over his head. As his shirt rides up a bit and John catches a glimpse of skin he’s suddenly afraid that Holmes is also going to take off his clothes. He’s extremely relieved, of course, when Holmes leaves a comfortable looking t-shirt he’s been wearing underneath his sweatshirt on and passes the sweatshirt to Miss Adler.

            Miss Adler pouts at Holmes but dons the sweatshirt and curls up on chair to Holmes’ right, gesturing for him to sit back down. He, of course, ignores the gesture and walks over towards the fireplace. “Alright, enough games, Woman,” he says, “You know why I’m here. Where is he?”

            “When did you get so boring, junior?” Miss Adler rolls her eyes and flicks her hand in the direction of the door, sighing, “He’s just downstairs.”

            “We need to talk to him.” Holmes responds dryly.

            “Now? He’s a little incapacitated at the moment.” Miss Adler grins.

Holmes stares at her.

Adler continues to grin like a Cheshire cat.

            John feels like he could cut the sexual tension between those two with a knife. He clears his throat for what feels like the millionth time in the past few minutes and suddenly utters, “Hamish.” John blinks after saying it, wondering why said it.

Holmes and Adler glance at him, equally as perplexed, “What?” they ask in unison.

“John Hamish Watson. Just, if you’re looking for baby names.” He hears himself saying.

There’s another moment of uncomfortable staring, this time between the three of them and then Irene bursts out laughing and Holmes’ lips twitch until they suddenly split into a wide grin.

“Oh, Sherlock!” Miss Adler giggles, “Where _did_ you find this one?”

Holmes rumbles out a laugh, “Shut-up, we just met and I’m not a fan. He arrested me this morning _and_ he’s stealing one of my cases. I’m not happy about it.”

Adler raises a brow, “Arrested you? Really? With real police-grade handcuffs?”

“Yep.” Holmes pops the ‘p’ at the end of the word ‘yep.’

“Kinky.” She winks.

Holmes says, annoyed, “Seriously, shut-up. Get Billy,” though John could swear the man is still smiling a bit.

“You’re so cute.” Miss Adler rises to her feet and pinches one of Holmes’ cheeks, “Stay put, I’m just going to ask Kate to go get your little pet for us.” She leaves the room with sultry wave.

“Well… she’s… interesting.” John states.

“Old friend.” Holmes replies, “I once helped her escape the clutches of an abusive lover. She’s a dominatrix now.”

John chokes.

Holmes’ smile in John’s direction is insincere as he teases, “Don’t be alarmed. It’s to do with sex.”

John takes that little statement as a challenge, “Oh, sex doesn’t alarm _me_ , Mr. Holmes.” He feels his own smile grow wolfish. Holmes studies John’s face for a long moment until Miss Adler walks back into the room, startling them both. She is now wearing what appears to be nothing but a black silk robe and her expensive shoes. She holds on to a leash that trails behind her. After her, Kate walks in, wearing a black-latex body-con suit and wielding a whip. Behind _her_ walks in Bill Wiggins, showered and clean but shirtless in tight black jeans with a black leather collar around his neck which is attached to Adler’s leash. John and Holmes blink at Adler.

Adler ignores their shock and leads Bill into the room, “Sit,” she commands.

Holmes gestures at Bill in obvious confusion, “Irene? Why?”

“You asked me to protect him. You know no one touches my girls or my boys, not without my permission.” Adler answers, running a nail down Bill’s arm.

“It’s undignified.” Holmes answers, “I sent him here for protection not for you to play around–”

“I don’ mind.” Wiggins speaks up a little too quickly, but to his credit he doesn’t seem the least bit shy about the rather bold statement, which sets off the ladies into a fit of giggles.

John almost joins them in laughing while thinking about the ridiculousness of the situation, of Holmes’ appalled expression, and at the frankness of Wiggins’ words. He manages to hold the laughter in, but he can’t help but smile in amusement as he introduces himself to the scrawny young man, “Hello, Mr. Wiggins, I am Sergeant John Watson,” He says, extending his “I'm here because I need to speak to you about an incident that happened a while back.”  

At the word ‘Sergeant’ Wiggins stiffens and he looks to Holmes nervously, as if asking for advice, then to Miss Adler, with an imploring expression. Holmes inclines his head, “He means he has questions about Porlock,” the consultant explains, as Miss Adler nods encouragingly. “It’s… alright, Wig. He’s been investigating the arms deal, and he saw you at the scene. It’s why he was following us this morning. He’s only looking for Porlock.”

“Oh.” Bill Wiggins studies Holmes for a few more seconds then turns to John, “Whotd’you wanner know den?” He asks in the distinctive accent John had heard the other evening.

John is pleased to hear that Bill Wiggins seems to be a lot more co-operative than Sherlock Holmes was. He takes out a notebook from his jacket pocket along with a pen and settles in to ask his questions. 

“Well, let’s start at the beginning, I’d like to hear just how you met Mr. Porlock…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so my biggest issues with this chapter were a.) writing Irene (I couldn't get her to sound quite like herself) and b.) not allowing her introduction to the story to drag on.   
> I ended up cutting down the chapter so that we could move on to the mystery sooner, so I ended it with John starting his line of questioning as the chapter going forward would no longer really have "the woman" as a main character. I've sort of just established her. She's a thing, she exists, she'll come by to play again later.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter, despite its brevity, thanks for reading,  
> -B


End file.
